She mocks me in all of my attempts,
and yet she urges me on.
Until I’m tired-
Until I’m starved-
Until there is nothing left of me.
She takes everything away,
With intentions to cure, but only harms.
Now, I am growing faint-
on this path of self-destruction,
on this road of isolation.
She rules me by numbers,
as I ignore the hunger…
for beauty and perfection,
to the extent of desperation.
To be weightless and fragile-
even if it is my own private exile.
To be lovely and finally free,
Oh, she begs for the “ideal” me.